


The Rose Behind Glass

by Adores



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 03:57:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5770384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adores/pseuds/Adores
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes was a materialistic person – he wanted things. A nice town house, a nice car, a nice pair of leather shoes, a nice set of dead bodies on a plane, a nice brolly. He didn't want relationships.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rose Behind Glass

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this on a whim without any particular direction or ending in mind. This is the result. All mistakes are mine. Un-betaed.

Mycroft Holmes was a materialistic person – he wanted things. A nice town house, a nice car, a nice pair of leather shoes, a nice set of dead bodies on a plane, a nice brolly. If he could, he would spend his entire life indulging in his vices without any care about the outer world, eating all day, reading all day, followed by a long, leisurely nap in the afternoon. He wasn’t curious about how other people led their lives. He couldn’t bring himself to care about how they died either. Why should it matter? He was technically dying, too, since he was born. There was always an end to everything. Mycroft couldn’t understand Sherlock’s obsession with such petty matters. Given enough time, Sherlock always managed to catch the murderer. Different faces but same motivations: hate, love, money, and sex. Mycroft could live without the messy business. He wanted things, that he could buy, get rid of swiftly if he wished to, and own.

Then there was Robert. Robert was an old friend from school. He nearly forgot about his existence entirely until he met him again in the States on a business trip – he somehow managed to find a spot in the CIA, with major ties and influences. And Mycroft needed his cooperation, for the successful completion of his current project.

Robert nearly looked the same as years ago, except that his hair was going grey, and he could see rather attractive laugh lines around his eyes that weren’t there before. Mycroft also remembered Robert’s pale skin glowing under the Sun, his sweat-soaked white button-down shirt, and a gold-plated pen that he always carried in his pocket in the chest. And the youthful, nervous smile he directed at him and the timid invitations to join him in the library, the small talk about the trees and the flowers and… _oh._

“Mycroft?”  Robert asked, quietly, and touched the back of his hand in concern.

Mycroft looked down at his own drink, a cold cucumber martini that was getting warmer and warmer by the minute in his tight grip. Robert’s hand moved up to his wrist, his fingers not quite holding him there but merely touching. _Asking_.

“I think I should retire now. I am rather feeling exhausted after the meeting.” Mycroft smiled firmly, quite the businessman he was, and Robert’s hand left him with a trail of warmth and hesitation. The message was quite obvious.

“Then I will see you tomorrow,” Robert said, standing up and extending his hand. Mycroft forgot to wipe his wet hand after giving up the glass for the handshake. It was brief, business-like, and messy with the lingering moist on his palm. Robert didn’t make any mention of it.

The project was successfully concluded with a major success and professional gain, with Robert’s valuable assistance. They merely parted their ways after that.

 

*

 

Detective Inspector Lestrade was a curious man. He was the embodiment of everything Mycroft detested and avoided in his life. The messy marriage followed by an equally disastrous divorce, his profession as a police officer, whose job was to go over petty details of people’s habits and their choice of lifestyle, sniffing their wardrobe, checking their bank accounts, and worse, interviewing them in their homes, at work, and in the tiny interrogation rooms that were the size of one’s palm, to get the results. His willing association with Sherlock was quite questionable and strange too. If Sherlock wasn’t his brother, he would have chalked him up as a simple nuisance. Sherlock was brilliant and could be quite useful in certain cases but was also a liability. But Lestrade, despite knowing all this, willingly took him in, helped him fight the addiction. But why?

Mycroft tested him. He sent him to Baskerville, with as little information as possible regarding the case, only armed with a gun. He called him in the middle of the night simply to ask how Sherlock had been that day. He tested his patience, and how far he was willing to go.

It took him nearly six years before Lestrade finally cracked.

“You can drop it, Mycroft,” Lestrade said.

“I am sorry?” Mycroft looked up from the monitor he was carefully looking at, to check the whereabouts of Sherlock, along with John and…Mary. God help him.

“Why am I here? I was having fun at this party, meeting all the other lonely ladies, dancing and drinking. It was the most fun I’ve ever had after the divorce. I was having fun, Mycroft. So. Why am I here?”

“Sherlock is missing. Presumably whilst working on the case you gave him. You are partly responsible for his disappearance, don’t you agree?”

It was more than unusual for Lestrade to react emotionally like this. After all, he didn’t seem to have any objection to meetings like this… He had never shown any discomfort for being summoned like this for the past six years, during the numerous times when Mycroft sent a car to pick him up in the middle of the night for debrief or whatever he thought warranted his presence in his office.

Despite his surprise, however, Mycroft he kept his cool, and managed to conjure up some excuse that sounded perfectly logical in his head. Lestrade wasn’t obviously impressed.

“Look, Mycroft. I understood your concern before. I respected you. Professionally and personally. But Mycroft, god, I am tired. I am pushing fifty now and… I don’t want this anymore. I am probably not gonna make it past the Detective Inspector before I retire within the next five or god help me, ten years, and I don’t have any kids, I don’t have a partner. I just… I am worried about Sherlock too, but he’s now got his friends. John. Mary. Mrs Hudson. Molly. He’s no longer that helpless, childish junkie with no other friends than the skull he always carried around. He knows what he does, better than any coppers I’ve worked with.”

Mycroft looked at him, speechless. Of course he knew his influence in Sherlock’s life was becoming weaker. He knew Sherlock grew out of him, after the Moriarty business, at least.

“I will still need to check at least where he is now. But you are free to leave,” Mycroft managed to say eventually, his eyes still trained on the dark monitor reflecting his own defeated face.

“I will stay,” Lestrade said quietly.

Mycroft didn’t answer, nor looked at him when Lestrade purposefully took a seat in front of him, and started giving him more details of their current case and where Sherlock might be now. After 10 minutes or so, Lestrade got a text from Mary, always the sensible one of the lot, telling him that they were back at 221B. They found the murderer, it seemed, and Sherlock was eager to tell Lestrade about everything.

“See?” Lestrade lifted one eyebrow and showed him his mobile displaying the text.

Mycroft smelled a whiff of some cheap alcohol as Lestrade moved closer and the lipstick stain on his shirt sleeve. Sally’s favorite colour and she must have been quite drunk if her head was anywhere near his arm like that. He could almost imagine the scene, people laughing and making terrible in-jokes, drinks spilled on the floor, their badges and responsibilities shoved somewhere back in their pocket and their minds, dancing, asking each other’s’ first names, and forgetting.

“Quite,” Mycroft answered and nodded.

“Next time, Mycroft, you can just join us.” Lestrade smiled, shoving his mobile back in his inner pocket. “I mean, if you are interested.”

Mycroft didn’t have to tell him that he was aware of the weekly pub nights he had with his friends and co-workers, had known them and had been curious about them for the last six years. Lestrade walked out the door without saying anything further, leaving Mycroft wondering if he could possibly fit in that kind of group.

 

*

 

Paul was one of the founders of the Diogenes club. He was, naturally, someone who preferred silence to meaningless small talk. He didn’t need small talk to get what he wanted, in short.

Mycroft nearly flinched when the cold, dry fingers touched his when he picked up the glass off the plate, perfectly balanced on the staff’s gloved hand. Once was a mistake but the second time, Mycroft doubted that it was a simple miscalculation of distance. He looked at him as a warning, but Paul only seemed cool and unaffected.

Paul had been his business associate for a time. He moved away to Australia and came back in time when Mycroft came up with the idea of the club. Someone else reminded him of Paul’s come back and his interest in the club. Investments were made and rules were discussed. Other things handled by some retired businessman, who wanted some peace away from home, from his nagging mother who was too healthy to be put in a nursing home, and his bored wife.

Ever since then, none of them had to discuss much outside of the club, keeping the contacts as scarce as possible. Particularly, Paul, never engaged much in the management of the club. He was just a name on the board, much like Mycroft.

Then the touches and eye contacts started.

The staff, fully trained in the rules of the club for years, brought Lestrade in through the gates quietly, and gave him a nod on the way to the Stranger’s room. Mycroft nodded back, all but ready to stand up and follow suit…until Lestrade broke free and walked up to his seat in time to witness Paul’s touch on his shoulder and up to the side of his neck. Paul didn’t expect Lestrade’s sudden appearance in the vicinity that his hands jerked away abruptly as the staff held Lestrade back firmly in case his intentions were not so… friendly.

Lestrade’s face flushed suspiciously and Paul stalked out of the room as Mycroft stood up. He gestured towards the Stranger’s room, and the staff followed his cue. This time, Lestrade remained quiet and cooperative.

As soon as the door was closed, Lestrade turned around and said, “I am sorry, Mycroft. I didn’t mean to interrupt you like that just now…”

“You didn’t interrupt anything, Detective Inspector. However, it would be unwise to not follow the staff’s instructions as you are not quite familiar with the club rules… this is a very strict, member-only place,” Mycroft said icily and his tone must have given Lestrade the wrong idea because he started apologizing again profusely. 

“I am so sorry. I mean, I wasn’t aware of… the nature of… the club that it could be…”

“What nature? Mycroft asked sharply.

“It seemed so anti-social before so I thought this must be a place for people like you, discreet, secretive, and _shy_ …”

“Shy?” Mycroft said, alarmed.

“Well, yes, of course. And it makes sense, doesn’t it?” Lestrade took the liberty of taking a seat without being told or asked to, and looked up at him from where he sat. “You don’t have to ask some bunch of strangers’ first names and endure 30 minutes of small talk about the weather, your job and your marital status…”

“For God’s sake, Lestrade, what are you on about?”

“… I know it must be quite embarrassing for you posh people to get caught doing something what other posh people do but I don’t mind, alright?”

Mycroft felt heat rising up on his cheeks, but managed to grab the whisky bottle calmly, pouring just enough to take a small, calming sip.

“This isn’t… a social club,” Mycroft managed to speak after the sip. “And what you just witnessed had nothing to do with my own will. The gentleman is someone I have known for a while and he must have got the wrong idea that I am somehow interested…in him that way, which is not true.” Mycroft takes the final sip, watching Lestrade over the rim of his glass.

“You mean, because he’s a bloke?” Lestrade blurted out and hastily added, “not that it’s any of my business, of course.”

Mycroft debated the merit of telling Lestrade the truth about his own sexuality. What was the point? He didn’t do date. All he needed was this club filled with the presence of other quiet, anti-social men like him as his company and he was quite content. But still…

“I prefer men,” Mycroft said eventually. Lestrade seemed surprised. “But that doesn’t mean I welcome attention from just any man.”

“Of course,” Lestrade answered, looking chided.

 

*

 

It was six months after their last meeting that their paths crossed again. Mycroft didn’t feel the need to seek Lestrade out as much as he did before and the uncomfortable situation last time added to his reluctance to meet him so soon.

John was throwing yet another party to congratulate his sister’s engagement. Only Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade and (surprisingly) Mycroft were invited for the quiet celebration, in addition to the usual members, John, Mary and Sherlock. Not to mention Harry(John’s sister) and her fiancée.

They were chatting amicably together in the lounge,  with Sherlock’s slow rendition of one of his favorite Chopin pieces in the background. It was predictably alcohol free, all nursing some tea or juice in hand. Mrs Hudson was engrossed in her conversation with Lestrade about the colour of her dress that she entirely missed his entrance but Lestrade didn’t.

“Mycroft!” Lestrade nearly shouted. Everyone else in the room whipped around, eyes now trained on him. He was still half certain that the invitation email was somewhat forged by Sherlock with malicious intentions to drag him out of his comfort zone and embarrass him in front of the army of his friends. Molly even brought one of her cats to the flat upon Sherlock’s encouragement. Mycroft didn’t think he could tell Molly that he was allergic to cat hair now, seeing how she seemed to enjoy watching her cat marking Sherlock’s leg by brushing its cheek against the fabric of his trousers. Served him right, Mycroft thought.

“Good afternoon, Mrs Hudson. Detective Inspector,” Mycroft kissed on Mrs Hudson’s cheek and turned towards Lestrade.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Lestrade eventually said.

“I didn’t think I’d come, either, to be honest, Lestrade.”

Lestrade was wearing one of his plain white shirt, sans his favorite work jacket. The shirt looked tighter around his waist than usual, perhaps due to recent weight gain but somehow it made him look more—fit. But Mycroft also knew Lestrade was an observant man, maybe not quite on part with him or Sherlock, but a good one in his own right. With that reminder in his mind, he firmly turned his eyes towards to the other group of people, smiling tightly in lieu of saying hello. Molly vaguely looked frightened.

“I will not be here long,” Mycroft said. Mrs Hudson gave him a dirty look but didn’t seem to genuinely mind his potential early departure.

“Why? Even the couple hasn’t arrived yet,” Lestrade asked.

“Well… I…” For some reason Mycroft didn’t expect to anyone to be interested in why… People were aware that he was a busy man. He was a good liar in certain professional settings. He didn’t feel an ounce of guilt that that was how he made his presence valuable in the government, because, after all that was what other spies did to each other. They relied on surveillance, spies spying on spies, and their gut feelings. But for some reason, in this very room in his brother’s flat, surrounded by the people who would, and had been already willing to sacrifice their lives, he couldn’t simply say the same lies he’d told others before. He must be getting older and mellow like his Father. 

“Greg is right, Mycroft. You should stay till they arrive at least. You must be hungry too! I’ve made some nice cookies for you to nibble on for now. Just wait there I will bring the plate!”

Lestrade smiled, quickly adding a thank-you. Mycroft sighed. “I’ve got a meeting scheduled later tonight, but I don’t think it would hurt to stay here for a while till then.”

“That’s the spirit!” Lestrade patted his shoulder. Mycroft nearly flinched. The warm hand only stayed for a second and then it was gone. Mycroft was equally glad and disappointed.

_How foolish._

 

*

 

By the time Harry and her fiancée arrived, Mycroft was rather feeling out of place. It was obvious from his observation that everyone else was all well acquainted with each other. Except him. He was not part of this group. They were talking about mundane things in their lives, like relationships, children and their work. It was such a shocking contraction from his world that Mycroft felt disoriented, almost. Magnussen was his kind of person. Moriarty’s madness was something he was more well-prepared for, and more familiar with. But not this group of rather ordinary people living in the cocoon of false sense of peace he himself created and provided for in part. With Mrs Hudson gone for the moment to take her herbal tea for her hip, and Lestrade introducing himself to Harry’s fiancée, Mycroft was completely left to his own devices. He was suddenly overcome with the bitterness of life. This was the reason he sought order in life. Not these, unpredictable entanglements, _relationships_ with people. His cheeks burned from the realization. _What he was doing in here?_ Even Sherlock was better adopt in this situation, more suave then him.

When it was his turn to introduce himself to the nearly engaged couple, Mycroft turned to his business mode and smiled stiffly. “Congratulations.” Jenn, the fiancée, said thank you quietly in return. Someone giggled somewhere from behind. Mycroft didn’t really care now. He did more than he was asked by being here in person. “If you will excuse me,” Mycroft said feeling the smile barely there, and moved into the kitchen to return his cup. As he moved away from the group he could hear Lestrade’s voice… “He’s a good bloke, Mycroft. He’s just being shy.” And it was the last straw he was waiting for. He checked his temper in his head before putting down the cup in the sink gently. He turned around and gave a withering look in Lestrade’s way. But it was completely ignored or unnoticed by the man, thankfully.

“Why are you upset?” Sherlock stepped in, with a mug in his hand. Of course. Sherlock always had the worst timing.

“It’s none of your business, Sherlock. You know I don’t enjoy social events like this. I’ve quite overstayed already here. I must leave now, if you don’t mind.” His irritation was seeping through somehow.

“Of course I don’t mind. But Lestrade will be quite disappointed to find out you did a runner again.”

“What do you mean? My presence is required elsewhere tonight. I’ve got an important meeting scheduled with the Americans for… well, you don’t need to know, do you?”

“I am talking about people here, Mycroft. Not your bloody work. I am talking about actual people wanting your company. Not some useless Americans you would undoubtedly love to spend the rest of your life with chitchatting about some international crisis via the webcam.

“Sherlock!”

“John considers you his friend,” Sherlock said, turning on his heels to leave. “Lestrade… I don’t quite understand him. But he cares about you."

Mycroft didn’t know how to respond to it. Instead he left 221B without saying goodbye to anyone in the lounge and did…a runner just exactly how Sherlock predicted.

As his car drove away, Mycroft felt cold and bewitched inside.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you all enjoyed the story. There will be another chapter, I think.


End file.
